


tell me, what do i do when (you're not here)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies) RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sickfic, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, so much pine it's a whole forest, the only possible response to Mackie's birthday text fiasco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 03:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: “He didn’t send a text back for forty-eight hours. And it just said, thanks… playa,” he jokes, and it’s supposed to take the sting out, just a self-deprecating quip and making fun of Mackie too, a little, maybe. Anthony Mackie, what a guy. But all he can hear in his own voice is the earnestness, and it does sting, his voice hollow with disappointment, and it takes him a good forty minutes to stop overthinking everything. Fuck. Too real, too complicated, too much letting it show, again, and Seb is so fucked. So fucking fucked. He’s sick, that’s all, he’s sick and he’s tired and he’s kind of anxious, talking about it more than usual, knowing it’s all a little raw and just not giving a fuck because oh god he wants to be lying down right now.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poziomeczka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/gifts).



The worst thing about cons is being sick at cons.

That is- it’s loud and it’s intense and it’s a little scary, of course it is, everyone _loves_ him so much he’s always a little taken aback by it, but usually he loves it right back, feeds off the energy and the joy and lets it fill him up. But when he’s sick, ugh, it’s a struggle. His head hurts and everything is _too_ loud, _too_ intense, and instead of bouncing back the energy, it feels like he’s being drained with every smile.

He pushes through. These are his _fans_ , fuck, they’re what his whole career is based on, if he can’t smile for them he might as well quit right now, but it’s a struggle the whole weekend.

 _It’d be easier if Mackie was here_ , he thinks at one point, and shoves it down. There’s- it’s weird between them lately, is all. Like all their easy friendship from Civil War has faded, replaced with something more complicated and difficult to manage. Like, maybe, Seb let it show one too many times, let himself bite his lip and think about Mackie’s eyelashes, his mouth, his hand on Seb’s shoulder.

“He didn’t send a text back for forty-eight hours. And it just said, _thanks… playa_ ,” he jokes, and it’s supposed to take the sting out, just a self-deprecating quip and making fun of Mackie too, a little, maybe. Anthony Mackie, what a guy. But all he can hear in his own voice is the earnestness, and it _does_ sting, his voice hollow with disappointment, and it takes him a good forty minutes to stop overthinking everything. _Fuck_. Too real, too complicated, too much letting it show, _again_ , and Seb is so fucked. So fucking fucked. He’s sick, that’s all, he’s sick and he’s tired and he’s kind of anxious, talking about it more than usual, knowing it’s all a little raw and just not giving a fuck because oh _god_ he wants to be lying down right now.

When he gets back to New York, it’s an effort of will just to get home from the airport. He takes a cab back to his place, knowing he should stop somewhere and pick up some food, juice, tissues, _meds_ , anything to make himself feel better. Whatever. He’ll drop off his suitcase and go back out, just down to the bodega, that’s fine, he can manage that.

 

New York is cool with the first hint of fall, colder than Austin, and his apartment is very empty and very quiet. Long shadows falling in the afternoon sunlight. He drops his shit on the floor, throws himself down onto his couch just to lie down for a minute.

A minute becomes two, and then twenty, and he knows he doesn’t have the energy to go out again. That’s fine, he can order take-out, his usual post-con treat pizza, except that he’s been eating take-out and room service for three days now and he’s so tired of it, tired of everything, fuck, he’s just so _tired_.

He thinks he falls asleep for a minute or two, maybe. Jerks awake to a noise at the door, and he should answer, he should get up, but he’s still blinking the sleep out of his eyes when the door swings open to Anthony, key in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other.

“Uh,” he says, sleep-muddled and confused, rubbing his face blearily. Did he invite Mackie over? But they haven’t talked since that abortive birthday text, and he wouldn’t have-

“Hey, kiddo,” Mackie says, grinning easily. Shuts the door behind him. “Nah, don’t get up, I know you just got back from Austin. Figured you’d be over take-out and shit.”

“I am _so_ over take-out,” Seb says fervently, and Mackie laughs, warm and sweet, the sound settling into Seb’s chest and making him feel better than he has in days.

“Yeah, I saw some of the photos, looked like you were on the edge of being done. You don’t sound so good, man, you coming down with something?”

“I’m fine,” Seb says, struggling to get himself upright, “I’m okay, I’m _fine_ ,” and Anthony just considers him for longer than usual, eyebrow raised.

“Really? Because you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Seb admits, sliding back down until the side of his face is smushed unattractively against one of the couch cushions. From here, he can still watch as Mackie puts his keys in the bowl on Seb’s bookshelf, drops the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and walks over, presses the back of his hand to Seb’s forehead.

“Yeah, you’re running a fever, kid, no wonder you feel terrible,” he says, matter-of-fact and kind all at once, and Seb lets himself whimper, just a little, this sad pathetic little noise that he regrets as soon as it comes out except that then Mackie is patting his hair, very gently, and Seb-

Seb would do a lot more to feel Mackie touch his hair like that, is all.

“Come on,” Mackie says, pulling his hand away. “I got you soup from the deli, lemme make you a cup of tea and I’ll get it heating, yeah?” He gets Seb sitting up, puts a glass of orange juice and three Tylenol down on the coffee table in front of him. Disappears into Seb’s bedroom and comes back with a blanket that he wraps around Seb’s shoulders before he starts boiling water, making a cup of lemon tea, pulling out a bowl to reheat the soup in the microwave. Seb washes down the Tylenol with a mouthful of juice, squints at Anthony in his kitchen like maybe he’ll disappear. What is he _doing_ here.

“Did you, uh,” he starts. “Did you text me? Sorry, man, I think my phone’s still on airplane mode.”

“Oh,” Anthony says, passing him the tea, and the mug is so warm Seb wraps his palms around it reflexively. “Nah, I figured. Well, you gave me that spare key, I figured you wouldn’t mind if I dropped by with soup and juice and shit. Tissues. Honestly, some of those photos, you looked like you were on death’s door, _someone’s_ gotta look after you, baby.”

“Really?” Seb asks, ignoring _baby_ , because down that road lies way too much overthinking and pining again, and his head aches too much for that shit right now. “Nobody noticed, at the con. I thought I played it cool.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Mackie agrees. “You forget that time you got the flu when we were doing press for Winter Soldier? I know what you look like when you’re hiding the fact you’re about to keel over.”

He does, is the thing. Seb remembers feeling even shittier than he does right now, how Mackie had brought a bag of take-out pho up to his hotel room like he’d known all Seb wanted was noodles and broth with enough sriracha that the burn of it eased the ache in his throat. How they’d laid side-by-side in Seb’s stupidly huge hotel bed, propped up on about twenty pillows, and watched reality tv neither of them were paying attention to, Mackie’s shoulder and hip and thigh warm where they were pressed up against Seb. Everything from that night is hazy, wobbly with the fever he’d probably been running, but Seb remembers how Mackie had made him laugh even though it hurt, how fucking _beautiful_ he was in his sweats, how Seb had reached over and wiped hoisin sauce off Mackie’s bottom lip and the way everything had gone still and shivery with possibility.

Anthony had gotten sick a couple days later, Seb thinks, of course he had, the flu went round the whole cast that tour. He’d accepted Seb bringing him flu drugs and popsicles, a cold washcloth, ordering room service for the both of them. Fallen asleep halfway through watching _Pacific Rim_ on hotel cable, head slumping against Seb’s shoulder, and Seb had frozen, held himself carefully motionless like maybe he could let Anthony stay that way, just listening to him breathe quiet against the background noise of robots and monsters and Idris Elba shouting. Had eventually turned the tv off, eased Anthony’s head down onto the pillow, pulled the covers up to his chin.

Here’s a secret: Seb had leaned down. Ghosted a kiss over Anthony’s forehead, and touched his cheek, very soft, and crept out, thinking, _enough, man, this crush is-_

“Seb?” Mackie says, and maybe it’s not the first time he’s said it, given how he’s leaning in, touching Seb’s shoulder to get his attention. “Wow, you’re spacey as fuck, man, you sure you don’t need to go to the ER or something?”

“No, I’m fine,” Seb says, automatic, and Mackie rolls his eyes. Brushes his hand over Seb’s forehead again like he’s not convinced.

“Okay, whatever. Eat your soup, I’m gonna get you a cold washcloth.”

“You don’t have to,” Seb protests, “ _seriously_ , I’ll be fine, this is amazing, you’ve got better things to do than-”

“Shut up and eat your soup, Sebastian,” Mackie tells him, “I didn’t heat it up just for you to let it get cold again,” and Seb coughs into the crook of his elbow and subsides. Pulls the blanket up a little higher around his shoulders, and eats his soup.

 

The soup is- fuck, it’s his favorite soup, chicken noodle from the local deli, how does Anthony even _know_ that. Homemade broth and thick hand-rolled noodles, heavy on the thyme, it’s so fucking good Seb has to blink a couple of times with how his eyes are watering. “Are you gonna eat?” he asks between mouthfuls, glancing up at Mackie.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna run you a hot bath though, okay?”

“Jesus,” Seb says, “dude, come on, you can’t be this nice to me.”

“Says who?” Mackie asks, flashes him a grin that makes Seb’s breath catch painfully in his chest, and goes into the bathroom, starts water running. He’s only been in Seb’s apartment a couple of times but he’s so comfortable here it’s like he could live here, Seb thinks, and winces. They’re just friends, is all. Just friends, and Mackie is looking after him because he knows Seb’s had a rough weekend.

When he gets out of the bath, cheeks flushed and hair curling into wisps from the damp heat, he honestly expects Mackie to be gone. He’s _still there_ , though, when Seb’s pulled on sweatpants and his softest t-shirt. Still sitting on the couch, tooling around on his phone, and he looks up and smiles again when he hears Seb’s footsteps. His eyes are very soft and Seb just- he doesn’t know how to feel about any of this. All of this.

“Feel any better?” Mackie asks, quiet, and Seb runs his hand through his hair, shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I do, I- seriously, thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Mackie agrees. “I wanted to, though. Come on, into bed before you get a chill again,” and then he’s getting up, pushing Seb gently but firmly back into his room, into _bed_ , fuck, pulling up the covers and turning on the bedside light like he’s been in here a thousand times before. Seb has to close his eyes; it’s too much, it’s _too much_ , and then the bed dips next to him and when he opens them, Anthony is stretched out on top of the covers and reaching for the tv remote.

“Don’t,” Seb says, hearing the huskiness in his voice and hoping Anthony will think it’s just the cough. “You don’t need to- you’ll get sick.”

“Shh,” Mackie says. Rolls his eyes and changes the channel until he finds one playing old black and white movies. _Bringing Up Baby_ , and Seb’s seen it a million times, of course he has, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind anything, right now.

“Why’re you being so nice to me,” he mumbles into his pillow, and Mackie pauses for a few seconds. Takes a breath. Seb closes his eyes. Wishes he hadn’t said anything. The silence stretches out between them, and then Anthony’s hand is on his head again, fingers stroking gently through his hair, separating each curl very carefully.

“You work too hard,” Anthony tells him, “when was the last time you rested, Seb? You got back from Ireland and practically went straight to Austin and now, what, you got three days here before you go down to Atlanta for the Soderbergh thing?”

“That’s how it is,” Seb protests, “you _know_ that’s how it goes, I’m just trying- Marvel won’t want me forever, you know that, I can’t be Bucky Barnes my whole life,” and it dissolves into coughing, the kind of cough that leaves his chest hurting. Anthony passes him the water bottle, watches as he takes a few sips, takes it back and lets Seb press his cheek against Mackie’s shoulder. Keeps stroking his hair, slow and easy.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “That’s how it is, huh.”

“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” Seb asks, knowing he’s trying to change the subject, an ache in his throat like maybe he wants to cry. That knot still in his chest. He doesn’t understand _why_ but it’s there. It’s just- he’s sick, that’s all. He’s sick. “It’s been ages since you... ” _Since we talked_ , he thinks, _you never reply to my texts, I miss you, I miss you_. It's not like they don't talk anymore, exactly. More that there are things left unsaid, that they've lost the easiness of just turning to each other and grinning knowingly. Conversations now, they feel like all the times Seb reached out to touch and never quite made contact. 

“Yeah,” Anthony says, “okay,” and fills Seb in on his life, how the Detroit project went, John Boyega and working with Kathryn Bigelow again, and that’s how Seb drifts into sleep, the movie quiet in the background and the low hum of Anthony’s voice, his fingers very gentle in Seb’s hair. It’s so nice, Seb doesn’t deserve how nice any of it is.

“Did you know,” he says, or maybe he just dreams he says it. Just on the edge of sleep, and he’s yawning, opening his eyes just enough to see Anthony’s face gilded in the soft lamplight. “This movie. There’s debate over whether it’s the first time someone used the word ‘gay’. You know, like that.”

“Really,” Anthony asks, and okay, maybe Seb _is_ dreaming, because Anthony is smiling down at him very fond.

“People wonder,” Seb says. “About Cary Grant.”

“Yeah, I know,” Anthony agrees. Traces his fingers down the side of Seb’s neck, and this is a dream. Must be.

“Yeah,” Seb mutters into the curve of Anthony’s shoulder, “people always wonder about that,” and then he’s asleep, going under into dreamless dark, Anthony’s fingers still warm on his skin.

 

When he wakes up, everything is quiet and still, dim in the fading evening light, and he can’t have slept for that long. Mackie is still there, warm and solid beside him, and he has a sudden moment of deja vu back to that hotel on tour. He’d let the moment bleed out, his thumb on Anthony’s lip and Anthony looking at him real intent, eyes wide and dark, and Seb remembers holding his breath, the way Anthony had sucked the pad of Seb’s thumb into his mouth. The sudden, hot shock of it, and Seb had shivered and closed his eyes and pulled his hand away, shifted back just enough to break the contact. He’d been cold, where his side had pressed against Mackie. Wanted to roll back in, wanted to kiss him, wanted a lot and done nothing about it.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens, huh,” Mackie says, voice low and amused. “I figured I’d stick around, make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.”

“Marvel will probably thank you,” Seb murmurs, doesn’t pull away and doesn’t pull away. His face is half on the pillow, half pressed into Mackie’s shoulder, and he’s still kind of feverish, hazy and a little out of it. Opens his eyes, and sees how Mackie is watching him, soft and curious, and he lets his eyes drift shut again because it’s just too much. Mackie laughs, and then he’s shifting, leaning in, and Seb feels him brush a kiss over his forehead, so light he could be imagining it.

He’s not. He’s not imagining it. He keeps his eyes closed, can’t open them, can’t _look_ , fuck, it’s just. It’s too much. Mackie’s just being kind, being tender, this weird level of intimacy with him in Seb’s house and in his room and in his bed, making him soup, running him a _bath_ , for shit’s sake, but the noise that comes out of his mouth, tiny and sleepy and painful, Seb thinks he’s given away too much already.

He gives in. Rolls in closer and presses his face against Mackie’s chest as if he can hide for a second or two. He’s half-asleep, he’s sick, that’s all, surely Anthony will let him pretend that’s all that’s going on.

“Oh my god,” Mackie teases. His palm settling warm on Seb’s shoulderblade. “You are so _clingy_ when you’re sick, I would never have guessed. So dramatic, Seb,” and his laughter rises in his chest where Seb can feel it right along with his heartbeat. He _is_ , fuck, he is clingy, his hand fisted in Anthony’s shirt like maybe he can hold onto him just a little longer, and there it is, that stupid ache in his throat again, Mackie’s like this right now, so goddamn _nice_ to him, he kissed Seb’s fucking forehead and let him fall asleep on his shoulder and it took him _forty eight hours_ to reply to a text message, god, Seb feels so dumb.

“I’m sick,” he mutters, “I’m allowed to be dramatic when I’m sick,” and pulls away, hopes his face isn’t doing a thing. Can’t look up, not yet. Anthony sighs a little, a noise Seb can’t quite parse the meaning of, and he doesn’t know what else to say. Bites his lip, turns his face away so he can cough. “You should go,” he says, still not looking, and he doesn’t- he just doesn’t _get it_ , is all. Doesn’t understand how it turned from jokes and teasing and playful compliments that made him blush like he’s still a kid in fucking high school to this, to this combination of intimacy and distance, to the point that he feels the lack of Anthony’s presence like a goddamn chasm. Overthinks what one fucking text message means until he’s crazy with it, chewing his lip until it bleeds. He shouldn’t- it doesn’t _matter_ , it was just…

Maybe it was just a friendship built on the artificial closeness of press tours, spending twenty three hours a day with the same people and then letting it fade out afterwards, but here they are. Here Mackie is, in Seb’s bed. “You should go,” he says again, voice rough. Coughs to cover it. “Pretty sure I’m not gonna die in my sleep, go on, head home before I give you whatever this is, man.”

“Seb,” Mackie says. Too intuitive, he always _knows_ , like something is going on with Seb that needs talking about.

There’s probably something that needs talking about, yeah, okay, but he just-

“ _Seb_ ,” Anthony says again. “Come on,” and Seb sighs. Turns his head back to face Anthony, and curls up a little tighter under the blankets, rests his cheek on one hand.

“It’s nothing,” he says, “I just. I’m just tired. Working too hard, like you said. Feeling sorry for myself. Don’t worry.”

“So this isn’t about what you said in Austin?” Anthony asks, and Seb has this brief moment of panic, like, _oh god_ , was there a hidden message in that text, should he not have shared it, or, _worse_ , did Anthony hear all that earnestness and disappointment Seb had hoped he’d hidden. “Your anxiety? Your head playing up again?”

Oh. _Oh_. Seb feels a rush of relief so hard it’s almost sickening.

“Yeah,” he admits, dragging his palm over his cheek, the stubble he really needs to shave, “yeah, it’s- it’s not great right now. I didn’t, uh. I kind of didn’t mean to talk about it. You know how it is. Lots of people, not enough sleep, your mouth runs away with you until you’re sharing more than you meant to. But I’ll be okay, I swear.”

“You sure?” Anthony asks, and he’s touching Seb’s hair again, tracing his fingers slow and steady through the strands, nails just barely scraping Seb’s scalp, and oh god, it’s giving Seb full-body shivers, goosebumps on his skin. He feels suspended in it, in this fever-dream of touch and quiet whispering. Doesn’t know what’s going on, and never wants it to stop.

“I missed you,” he manages, and it’s not enough but it’s something, at least. Anthony just smiles. Strokes his hair, lets his fingers drift down over the nape of Seb’s neck. Leans in and presses another kiss to Seb’s forehead.

“Go back to sleep,” he says, “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> poor lil bean Seb is pining so hard for Mackie he's basically a whole forest
> 
> (that text thing: [one hundred percent quoted word for word](http://steverogersorbust.tumblr.com/post/150881655583/he-didnt-send-a-text-back-for-48-hours-and-it) because I am about realism in this RPF business)
> 
> (the pining: lbr, probably also one hundred percent realistic)
> 
>  
> 
> [this fic totally has a theme song thanks fka twigs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6viRh2rfs7g)
> 
>  
> 
> come say hi [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/)


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